


on the outside, looking in

by Pentone



Series: when everything was new [2]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 01:51:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11887398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pentone/pseuds/Pentone
Summary: Last year, a peer died in a car accident. Her name was Melanie Berkowitz, but her classmates called her Horse-Face. No one sat with her during recess or lunch. In the aftermath of her death the school was full of deeply personal, assuredly fictional anecdotes about her, and almost a quarter of his peers had laid claim to the title of her best friend.Tim wonders if that’s what it’s like in Jason’s school right now.





	on the outside, looking in

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Death in the Family.

April 30th, 8.15AM. The temperature outside is a slightly chilly sixty degrees. It’s a day like any other. Batman and Robin have been out of town for weeks, which has allowed Tim to catch up on his sleep. Jack and Janet Drake have left for work. Mrs Mary McIlvaine née Johnson, referred to as Mrs Mac for short, pours full-cream milk into Tim’s breakfast cereal.

Tim likes Mrs Mac. She maintains a staunchly professional distance from his personal life, one that works to his benefit, and she telegraphs her emotions in a way that leaves no room for ambiguity. When she says, “Oh Timmy, did you hear the news?” with that specific rise and fall to her voice, Tim is confident that she’s about to share something sad.

Mrs Mac enjoys telling him news she hears on the radio during her morning drive to the Drake estate. Cats saved from trees, petty muggings. Tim has no reason to believe that today will be any different.

“About what?” he asks.

“The poor Wayne boy. The young one. He passed away on a trip overseas.”

The first time Tim felt the ground fall away from under his feet was eight years ago when Dick Grayson’s parents fell from a height of fifty-five feet and landed on the floor in a mess of misshapen limbs. The world around him had erupted into a cacophony of gasps and high-pitched cries, and Janet’s grip on his shoulder had tightened. Police sirens approached, painting the circus tent blue and red. Batman appeared.

Right now, the sun is shining. The only thing in front of him is his breakfast cereal.

For all intents and purposes, he has no reason to know Jason Todd. So while Mrs Mac is facing the kitchen counter, he grinds his molars and curls his hands into fists under the table. His nails dig into the flesh of his palms.

By the time Mrs Mac has turned back to face him, he’s schooled his expression into one of polite, unaffected concern.

“Oh, that sucks. Did they give any details?”

Mrs Mac shakes her head. “No, no details. All I know is that it was some unfortunate incident in Ethiopia. It’s just so _sad_. I can only begin to imagine how devastated the boy’s father must be. He was only fifteen.”

Tim looks down at his cornflakes. If he doesn’t eat soon his meal will congeal, and this will make Mrs Mac unhappy. There’s a tinnitus-like ring in his ears, one that pierces right through his skull. He wants to throw up. “Um, do you think they might be talking about it on the morning news?”

“Let’s find out.” She claps her hands together and turns towards the entertainment room.

“You go on ahead. I’ll join you in there after I finish eating. I don’t want to get food bits all over the couch.”

Mrs Mac places her hand over her chest and makes this heartfelt noise. She does this whenever he does something that makes her think he’s acting especially mature for his age.

Once she’s out of the room, Tim pours his breakfast into the garbage disposal.

 

A PA announcement comes on during first period.

“Today, we mourn the loss of an esteemed member of our Gotham Academy community. Jason Todd passed away on April 27th in a tragic incident. He will be remembered as a loving, kind and intelligent boy. Let us all engage in one minute of silence for our fallen classmate.”

Last year, a peer died in a car accident. Her name was Melanie Berkowitz, but her classmates called her Horse-Face. No one sat with her during recess or lunch. Tim spoke to her exactly once when she asked him if she could borrow a sharpener during science class. In the aftermath of her death the school was full of deeply personal, assuredly fictional anecdotes about her, and almost a quarter of his peers had laid claim to the title of her best friend.

He wonders if that’s what it’s like in Jason’s grade right now.

In his peer group, one grade down and a campus away, the anecdotes are more far-removed. There’s talk that Jason owed a gang drug money (“people who come from that side of the tracks are always involved in drugs-- they are, my father told me!”) and that he died because he’d been murdered by a loan shark. The chatter stretches into second period, then recess, then third period. Fourth. The rumors grow increasingly fantastical.

During lunch, Geoff Bair, son of the Bair Tech CEO, rolls his eyes. “How does that make sense? He died overseas and the Waynes are loaded. Are you telling me some loan shark followed him to Africa just to snuff him out? You daft cow. They’d drop more money on the plane trip there than whatever the hell that guy could have owed them to begin with! Tim-- do you know anything about this? Back me up.”

“It’s not the Waynes,” he snaps, before he can stop himself. Underneath the table, his knuckles turn snow white from the grip of his fists.

All eyes at the cafeteria table are suddenly on him. His classmates stare with wide, unblinking eyes.

“I mean…” Tim looks down at his lunch tray. “It’s just Wayne now. Singular.”

Geoff clears his throat. “Er, yeah. I guess you’re right. Anyway, as I was saying.”

To lessen suspicion, Tim counts backwards from five hundred, and doesn’t excuse himself from the cafeteria table until he’s reached zero.

In the boy’s restroom, he turns on the taps and washes his hands. He’s in the middle of watching his blood thin and drain from the crescent-shaped indentations in his palms when he’s thumped gently on the shoulder.

“Hey, Tim--” It’s Geoff. “Jesus! What in the world?”

In a surprising exhibition of tact, all Geoff does is offer to escort him to the infirmary.

The school nurse has a quiet, monotonous voice. She dabs the wounds with a cotton ball soaked in iodine, one after another.

“Tim, is something going on?” she asks.

“No.” He answers a little too fast. To the far end of the room, Geoff studies the posters on the wall.

Tim knows that he’s treading precarious ground. Whatever he says, it needs to be both believable and not a cause for concern.

“I get headaches sometimes,” he explains. “And I clench my hands when it gets too painful.”

“Hmm. Well. You don’t have a temperature. Have you been drinking enough water lately?”

“I think so.”

“Other causes of headache are factors like stress, but it could be a more systemic problem.” She begins bandaging his hands. “How long have these headaches been going on for?”

“Not too long.”

“That’s good, but I want you to see a doctor about them if they persist, and I want you to hold _onto_ something the next time you feel like clenching your hands. How is your head right now? Do you want to be excused from school today?”

Tim looks to the clock hanging above the door. “I think I’ll be fine. There’s only one period left.”

 

In a rare turn of events, Tim’s parents are home before 7PM.

Tim’s father, Jack Drake, likes to smoke at the minibar in the entertainment room. The television is on, but Tim is the only one watching. Jack is busy looking through company documents and talking shop with his wife, Janet.

“You know, with this incident, Wayne stock prices will fall!” he calls, loud enough for Janet to hear him in the adjoining room. “It’s a good opportunity to buy more shares!”

Janet scoffs. “Oh please! Everyone knows that! Get back to me with something original!”

On the evening news, Bruce Wayne tries to make his way through a deluge of reporters. His security detail can only do so much. His face is haggard. Questions come from every direction, overlapping and melding, about whether he regrets bringing Jason to Ethiopia, how Jason managed to get caught in an explosion, possible threats of negligence, how this personal tragedy will affect the company.

“Please leave me alone,” is the only thing Bruce says.

Tim never imagined that a man like Bruce, who could enter a room full of armed men and come out unscathed, could sound like that. Like something breakable.

Finally, Bruce makes it to Wayne Tower. The double doors close behind him, leaving the camera crews outside.

 

At 11:30PM, Tim sneaks out of the Drake estate. It’s no different to what he does on every other Friday and Saturday night, but today he doesn’t make his way to the other side of Gotham to watch Batman and Robin fly over the city. Instead, he visits the neighboring property.

Prior to this moment, he’d only ever seen Wayne Manor in magazines. The grounds are larger than his own and so is the house. But right now, dimly lit at the end of the long, dark driveway, it looks impossibly small. All the curtains are drawn, the windows unlit. The steel gates stretch up towards the sky.

To his right is the intercom. If he reaches out to press it, someone will most certainly answer.

He thinks about what he could say.

_Hello, my name is Tim Drake._

_Hello, my name is Tim Drake, and your son was important to me._

_Hello, my name is Tim Drake, and I loved him so much it made my heart hurt._

_Hello, my name is Tim Drake, and I can’t talk to anyone about what I’ve lost._

_Hello, my name is Tim Drake, and I spoke to him once for half an hour, so I know exactly what you’re going through._

_Hello, my name is Tim Drake, and I know your secret. I won’t blackmail you, I promise._

His plans for action are usually more thought out than this. He thinks about the crowd of reporters teeming outside Wayne Tower like insects.

The night is cold. His face feels numb. When he looks down to his hands, his bandages are a fresh hue of red.

He goes back the way he came.


End file.
